


Straight

by shaenie



Category: LOTR RPS
Genre: Football, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-13
Updated: 2003-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom is well over his minor fascination with Sean's arse.  He is. No, really!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight

**Author's Note:**

> bean/dom written for the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/msilverstar/profile)[**msilverstar**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/msilverstar/) as a challenge, with the theme of revelry, including the word 'folio' (!?!?!). Beta'd by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/lazulus/profile)[**lazulus**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/lazulus/), without whom my boys would be misusing all sorts of slang. With special thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/megolas/profile)[**megolas**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/megolas/) and her entire family, as I literally harassed every last one of them in my quest for information on football and beer. (Lurves Meg forevah, and Meg's family, too!)

Dom wasn't sure if he should blame it on ill luck or divine providence.

"Dominic?" Sean's voice, emanating from the mobile phone Dom was holding up to his ear, was questioning. "Dom?"

"Yeah, here, Sean," Dom said, though his mouth was suddenly dry. _Don't be a wanker_ , he thought. _We're mates, that's all. Sean's a friend, and I'm in town, and friends get together and watch footie when they are both in town at the same time._

"Did I get you at a bad time, Dom? I can ring back... "

"No, no, Sean, I'm sorry. I'm just -- " _a bleeding idiot_ " -- trying to work out if I'm supposed to be doing anything Thursday." Which wasn't at all true. Not true in the slightest. What Dom was actually doing was obsessing about a drunken, laughing bet made in a Wellington pub years and continents ago. A bet Sean probably didn't even remember.

But, then... why the call? Why _this_ game?

 _Stop it, Monaghan_ , Dom ordered himself sternly. _You're being an utter prat_.

"Dom?" Sean asked again, and this time his tone was tinged with concern. "If you can't make it, we can get together another time."

But Dom could hear the faint disappointment in Sean's voice, and abruptly felt like an even bigger arse. Of course Sean would be disappointed. Sheffield was his team, and Thursday's game was a big deal, and of course Sean wanted to watch it with his friends around him.

And here was Dom, being an utter killjoy, because he couldn't stop thinking about a certain night that was probably lost in a drunken haze, as far as Sean was concerned. Dom only remembered bits of it himself.

"Fuck it!" Dom said, probably a bit too loudly, as an elderly chap sweeping the walk in front of his shop looked up, startled, and then scowled and shook his head. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing Thursday, but I'm sure it wasn't important. I'll be there."

"Brilliant!" Sean crowed, and Dom could hear him grinning. "It wouldn't have been half as much fun without you!"

Dom could feel his face heating with pleasure, and he grinned. "Nothing's ever as much fun without me, mate," he said, which was pretty much true (as far as Dom was concerned, anyhow). It was nice to hear it, though, and especially nice to hear it from Sean. Sean didn't say things like that without meaning them. Sean didn't say much of anything unless he meant it, and suddenly that bet was in his head again, bright with memory.

"Of course not," Sean agreed, laughing, unaware that Dom was quite suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that Sean's voice (as per normal) had him half hard in his jeans.

 _Stupid fucking cock_ , Dom thought grumpily. _Go to sleep. Straight. Think straight thoughts_.

"This will be fantastic, I promise. It'll be worth whatever you're going to miss. Come round early and we'll catch up!"

Dom agreed (it was too late to do anything else). He finished his shopping, studiously not thinking about pubs, Wellington, or drunken bets made only half in fun.

~

Later, in the shower, he told himself it hadn't really been a proper bet anyhow. His cock had been annoyingly half-awake all day, and it didn't really seem to believe Dom when he told it that it might as well just stop, as it wasn't getting what it was clearly hoping for.

Bean was straight, for one thing. Not like Viggo-straight (which was a rather flexible kind of straight to be) or an Orlando-straight (which was a _VERY_ flexible kind of straight to be) but actually really straight straight. Married three times with multiple children straight.

Straight, as in without any bends whatsoever. Straight as a ruler. Straighter than a ruler, even. More like straight like a steel girder.

Sean was really distressingly straight.

Dom's cock didn't care.

Dom himself had been fairly certain he didn't care, until he'd remembered that stupid fucking bet.

"Wasn't a proper bet," he muttered aloud, and ducked his head under the water. They had all been very drunk, and it had really been more closely related to a snide comment than a bet.

A bet implied some sort of reciprocal negotiation, each party standing to gain something if the other party lost the bet.

Besides that, Sean probably didn't remember it. Dom barely remembered it.

It had been an offhand remark, nothing more. It was utterly ridiculous to be standing in the shower, fixated on a thing so patently ridiculous, whilst trying to convince his cock that it didn't mean anything. It was downright freakish, in fact, especially if one recalled that Dom had gotten over his very slight fixation on Bean's arse years ago. Literally. Years.

It didn't make any sense. He wasn't going to think about it anymore. He wasn't, not even once, and he wasn't going to try to translate that little flip that happened in his belly every time he remembered it (because he wasn't _going_ to remember it, and thus there would _be_ no resultant flip to translate).

If Dom mentioned it to Sean -- which he wasn't going to do, of course, because he wasn't going to think about it, and thus probably wouldn't even remember it by Thursday -- Sean would probably just look at Dom like he'd gone round the bend. He'd probably ask Dom what on earth he was on about.

It hadn't even been a proper bet.

~

It was funny how any get together featuring members of the cast (Dom still thought of them that way, and suspected that he always would, in spite of the fact that they had been done with filming for years, and had all since become members of other casts) involved beer. It was almost ritualistic. So much so, that it was no longer even mentioned. When Dom met up with any of them, Dom knew to bring beer. When they visited him, _they_ brought beer. Ritualistic. Like the sacred beer offering, or something.

He wondered if he'd be allowed inside, if he had showed up without beer.

Having neglected to ask if Sean would have any other guests in attendance (he'd been ever so slightly distracted), Dom had elected to bring a lot of beer. A lot of very heavy beer, and it seemed to be gaining in bulk every second he stood on Sean's doorstep. Beer gremlins, Dom thought distractedly, shifting to try to retain a good grip on the beer. Beer gremlins were adding another bottle to each of the six four-packs (one in each hand, two under each arm) Dom was struggling to maintain his hold on, for each second that he stood there. Which wouldn't be a bad thing, except the nasty buggers always removed all the extras by the time one was drunk enough to look for them.

"Bean!" Dom shouted. He kicked the door. The two four-packs under his left arm were attempting escape, Dom could feel them trying to slither their way free. Dom pulled his arms more tightly to his body to thwart them. He pulled back a leg, intent on kicking the door again. Sean chose that moment to open it.

Dom was dismayed to discover that the kick had already passed the point at which it became inevitable. He kicked Sean square in the right shin. "Ow, fuck!" Sean yelled, just as one of the four-packs under Dom's left arm made a brave bid for freedom. Dom was a little off balance from the kick, and could do nothing but try to squeeze his arms tighter still around the beer under his arms (he would swear on a stack of bibles that the little bastards under his left arm were actually squirming). Unfortunately, all this accomplished was to squeeze one of the four-packs under his right arm hard enough to crack the glue that held the bottom of the cardboard caddy together. The bottles slid out the bottom like lemmings, just as both of the four-packs under Dom's left arm finally escaped his control completely.

For about three seconds, Dom just stood there in stunned fury, still holding a four-pack in each hand, wet with beer from the knee down. In front of him, Sean had bent awkwardly to rub at his shin, and then frozen in that position whilst he bore witness to the Great Beer Revolt of 2003.

For a short span of time, Sean just stared, speechless.

Then he snickered. The fucker.

Dom considered hitting him with one of the remaining four-packs, but then decided against it. He had plans for them, and those plans did not involve licking beer off of Sean's body.

Sadly.

"Laugh all you like," Dom said, and smirked. "That was your share of the beer."

"Hold on!" Sean objected, gave his shin a quick rub, and straightened up. "You're the clumsy one!"

"Now you have to do my laundry as well," Dom announced, and Sean snorted. "It's your fault for making me wait so long, so it's the least you can do."

"I was tidying up," Sean grumbled, still grinning, and relieved Dom of the rest of the beer. "Take off your shoes, Dom, I don't want my carpet reeking of beer."

Dom grumbled under his breath, but toed off his trainers and left them amidst the carnage on the front doorstep. After a moment's thought, he peeled off his dripping socks and hung them over the banister just inside the door.

Sean had vanished (presumably into the kitchen) when Dom wandered into the living room. The telly was already blaring something about the upcoming game, and Dom watched for a moment, trying to ignore the discomfort of chilled, wet denim clinging to his calves.

He was taken by surprise when a soft bundle of something whapped him in the face. His hands captured it by instinct as it slid off his head.

Sweats.

"You should get out of those wet jeans," Sean said, and Dom's mind skittered sideways with a screech that seemed almost audible to Dom's ears, and tumbled into the gutter.

"That," Dom heard himself saying right out loud, "is the key phrase in every soft-core porn movie ever made."

Sean threw his head back and laughed ( _there should be a law against that_ , Dom thought faintly), and jerked his thumb toward the hall. "Toilet," he directed, and moved himself off in the other direction. "Beer?" he called back over his shoulder as he crossed into the kitchen.

"I'll have several, they're small," Dom called back, and padded down the hallway in search of the loo. He was weirdly conscious of his bare feet on Sean's hallway carpet, but decided that it was probably wisest not to consider why.

If he'd known he would be stripping half naked in Sean's loo and then re-dressing in Sean's clothes, he would've worn pants. The sweats were of the elastic band variety rather than the string tie variety, and were somewhat too big in the waist. He took a few experimental steps, just to be sure they weren't going to slide down when he walked and expose his arse. He decided he was safe enough, and any arse exposure would have to be strictly on a voluntary basis. Not that he expected there to be any.

He certainly didn't expect to be paying up on any very old drunken bets. No. Because Sean was straight.

He spent a few minutes imagining grandmas and ringwraiths before he was comfortable with leaving the toilet.

~

Dom had never seen anyone so fixated on a game in his life. He liked football as well as the next bloke, but Sean was completely bonkers.

Yes, all right, it was a big game. Yes, it would determine whether or not Sheffield went to the Premier League next season. All right, yes, if he were Sean, he'd be going mental as well. Still.

Sean stared, Sean bounced, Sean leapt to his feet (grabbing Dom in a tight one-armed hug and hauling him up as well) when Sheffield scored. Sean praised some players, and cursed the descendants of some others for the next twelve generations. Sean grinned with manic, ridiculous joy when Sheffield was leading at the end of the first half, and challenged Dom to a very fast drinking contest which involved them pouring beer into each other's open mouths and created a mess on the sofa, which Sean seemed not to give a damn about (which was just funny, considering he wouldn't let Dom in the house wearing beery shoes).

Dom was having a fucking killer time. Sean was great anyway, but Sean half-stoned with joy was the fucking bomb.

Sean threatened to take out a hit on Forest's Darren Ward three times in four and a half minutes (Dom timed it). When Sheffield scored at eighty-four minutes, pulling ahead by a goal, Sean kissed Dom full on the mouth, laughing like a bloody loon.

Dom had to excuse himself for a moment.

"You can't go, you wanker!" Sean shouted, bouncing like a total madman on the sofa, but not actually looking away from the telly. "Six minutes, Dom, fucking hold it!"

"Nah, can't, mate. I'll hurry," Dom muttered, and headed for the loo. He had almost made it when Sean hollered from the living room.

"Get the beer, Dom! I left the stuff you brought in the bedroom when I got the sweats!"

"Alright," Dom shouted back, and detoured to the bedroom instead. He didn't actually have to use the toilet, after all. He just had to have a minute or two to have the "Sean is straight, dammit" talk with his cock again.

The beer was sitting by the dresser. He bent and grabbed it, and was actually turning toward the door when his eye fell on the book on top of the dresser. It was immense, bound in leather, and had Viggo's name scrawled in the lower right corner in sparkling silver print. Dom hesitated, feeling very slightly guilty, but then shrugged it off. He guessed it to be either photos or possibly some other artwork, by the size of the book ( _folio_ , his mind corrected, _artists call books like these folios_ ), and in all honesty, he thought it might be just the thing to distract him from the tent currently occupying the front of his (Sean's) sweats.

He set one of the four-packs down beside it and opened the cover one-handed.

And stared.

At.

Naked Sean.

"Oh, bugger," he muttered, and closed his eyes. It didn't help much. The image was burned onto his retinas or something.

Naked Sean on a bed, looking straight at the camera with a smile, white sheets wound around his legs, but not covering anything of importance.

Why does Sean have naked photographs of himself? He opened his eyes and looked at it again (stared might have been more accurate), and before he could tell himself this was a very bad idea, and that it was rude, definitely, and completely inappropriate, and for God's sake this was not helping the tent in his (Sean's) sweats in the slightest, he was turning the page with a hand that was not entirely steady.

More naked Sean. This time, naked Sean (still on a bed, and Dom's eyes wandered over to the bed in the room, and yes, it was _that_ bed all right) was on his belly, one leg artfully cocked to hide his naughty bits. He had and arm folded to pillow his head, and was looking straight at the camera. He was not smiling this time.

 _I am not looking at Sean's bare arse_ , Dom told himself sternly. It was a blatant lie, of course.

There was lots of naked Sean in the folio. Naked Sean doing all manner of things (looking out the window, backlit by the sun, utterly gorgeous in a manner that was actually painful; standing in the doorway, grinning yet again, one leg cocked forward aggressively; standing by the bed, one hand resting on a poster, looking off to the left with only a faint smile), and Dom had to force himself to close the thing and back away from it, force himself to pick up the four-pack from the dresser (holding it carefully in front of him) and return to the living room.

 _You nosy fucking bastard, you utter idiot, you great bloody cunt!_ he berated himself silently as he sat down next to fully clothed Sean on the sofa.

"Two minutes, and Forest scored while you were gone," Sean said, without removing his eyes from the telly, and thank bleeding Jesus he was so enthralled with the game, or he couldn't have failed to notice the fact that Dom couldn't take his eyes off of Sean. Dom literally could not look away.

 _"If the Blades ever make the Premier League, I'll suck your fucking cock, Bean!"_

That had been exactly what Dom had said, in a pub, in Wellington, years ago. Laughing and drunk and only half joking (his admiration of Sean's arse had been in full swing then, much as it was now, again), Dom had said it while wrapping an arm around Sean's shoulders and kissing him messily on the cheek. There had been much laughter, Sean's included.

 _"I'll be taking you up on that, one day, mark my words!"_ Sean had said, also laughing, also quite drunk.

Not half-joking at all, though, completely joking, Dom knew, because Sean. Was. Straight. And no amount of liking him or wanting him or seeing him naked (in photographs he would have recognized as Viggo's even without the signature on the leather cover, they were completely Viggo's style, Viggo's work) was going to change that.

So he had to get a fucking grip.

He had never doubted that Sean's comment had been made in fun, that it had meant nothing, had never truly thought that anything could ever happen, until he had opened the cover of the folio and seen him naked and beautiful in black and white and shades of grey, smiling into the camera. And Dom knew what it was, knew it was only _wanting_ to believe that it was possible that made him doubt it, now.

But he couldn't still that hopeful flare of heat in his belly when he looked at Sean.

He knew when Sheffield was going to score by the look on Sean's face, though he wasn't even pretending interest in the telly at that point. "Run it!" Sean crowed, jubilant, and surged to his feet, hands fisted at his sides, face open with amazed joy. "Run it, you bastard, run it, run it... Yes!" Sean's fists shot into the air, triumphant, and he turned to Dom, beaming. "Did you see, Dom, fuck, fucking hell did you see! That was the dog's bollocks!"

"Brilliant," Dom agreed, grinning back -- because he just couldn't not grin back when Sean looked so delighted -- and just hoping Sean didn't kiss him on the mouth this time, because Dom was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to contain himself if Sean did that again.

Sean didn't, although he did flop back onto the sofa and grab Dom, dragging him close and keeping him tucked under one arm. "You're my lucky bloody hobbit, Dom," Sean announced, grinning, but turned back toward the telly again. "Just stay lucky another minute, just one more bleeding minute."

"You're crushing the lucky hobbit," Dom ventured (because being this close to Sean in a strictly platonic sense was torturous, Dom would've chosen bamboo shoots under the fingernails any day over being tucked up under Sean's arm so tightly that he could feel Sean's hipbone grating against his own), but Sean just tightened his arm around Dom, muttering something that sounded like equal parts cursing and encouragement under his breath.

The phrase: "Don't you do it, you fucker," came through quite clearly, and Sean's arm tightened around Dom, eyes narrowed furiously on the screen, teeth gritted so hard Dom could see a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Ow," Dom said, but Sean ignored him, and Dom was pretty sure at any moment he was going to be forced to choose between going utterly mad and leaning in and biting that clenching muscle in Sean's jaw, and he was fairly sure which it would be.

"Get your arse moving, Kenny, I'll skin you alive, you fuck... you... don't... Yes, fucking yes!" Sean was screaming, literally, and stood up again (Dom still firmly tucked under his arm like a carry on parcel), only to continue screaming: "Saved it, he saved it, bless the bastard. We are in the fucking League, in the fucking Premier League!"

And then he leaned in a kissed Dom. Again. This time with tongue.

Dom was fairly sure he'd passed out due to lack of oxygen, from all the squeezing. On the telly, the fans were roaring, the team was roaring, everyone was roaring in celebration.

The blood was also roaring in Dom's ears, and Dom's cock was roaring utter and complete approval.

If he was passed out anyway, no reason not to enjoy this while it lasted, he reasoned blearily, so he fisted both hands in Sean's shirt and kissed back.

He wasn't sure how long it went on, as his sense of time was quite vague while he experienced Sean's open, frantic lips and Sean's hot, clever tongue. It was long enough that he gradually became certain that he was quite conscious, and that knowledge caused some sort of painful dissonance in his mind, something doubtful and confused that he desperately wanted to squash out of existence, but couldn't quite banish. He ignored it for as long as was humanly possible, concentrated instead on the wet heat of Sean's mouth and the hard angles of his body under Dom's hands (which had taken it upon themselves to begin a thorough exploration of Sean's body, not that Dom was complaining).

Sean helped, possibly unwittingly, by shoving Dom backward onto the sofa and falling on top of him, the weight and heat of him pushing against Dom in a thousand different, highly erotic ways. He ignored it quite successfully, in fact, until Sean arched into him, and he felt the length of Sean's cock against his, felt Sean press fiercely forward, one hand sliding down (right under the sweats, holy shite!) to cup Dom's arse and pull Dom firmly upward, against him.

Then Dom's hands were pushing at Sean's chest (Dom was amazed and vaguely horrified to discover that this was so, but couldn't seem to make them stop), and he could hear himself saying: "Wait, hang on then, just a minute!"

Sean stopped at once, pulling back to look down at Dom, and for a moment, Dom couldn't think what the hell it was he wanted to be waiting for.

He was staring at Sean, and he was quite sure he wasn't thinking entirely clearly, but he seemed to recall some reason why this should not be happening, if he could only takes his eyes off of Sean's mouth for just a second, just long enough to...

Ah, yes. There it was. Straight. Sean was straight.

"You're straight," he told Sean, and then wanted to bite off his own tongue at his unforgivable stupidity. If Sean couldn't recall the simple fact that he was heterosexual, why the hell was Dom reminding him?

 _Because he's your friend_ , Dom's brain -- or rather, Dom's conscience, he supposed, bugger the fucking thing -- reminded him. _And you don't want him looking at you afterward with that straight guy 'oh my fucking god, I'm a poof' look._

Oh, right. That was why. Fuck.

Sean was just looking at him, searching his face. He was regarding Dom with the same fixed attention he'd been regarding the telly with a few minutes earlier, and like it or not, Dom's cock was responding to that kind of attention. The rest of Dom, as well, and there suddenly just wasn't enough air in the room. He was fairly sure it had nothing to do with the fact that Sean's weight was resting on top of him. Or rather it did, but it wasn't really the weight part Dom was having issues with. It was the 'on top of him' bit.

It didn't look like Sean was going to say anything anytime soon, and the silence was making Dom nervy. He licked at his lips (and Sean really shouldn't be following that movement with his eyes, that was _very_ distracting) and said: "I don't want to be the reason you regret waking up tomorrow morning, Sean."

Sean smiled, not a grin, but an actual smile, sweet and gentle, and said: "But you promised, Dom. You said if the Blades ever made the League, you'd suck my cock."

Dom wondered if his eyes were actually bugging out of his head. It sure as fuck felt like it.

"And since you're my lucky hobbit, it would only be fair to return the favor." Sean's smile broadened at Dom's expression, which Dom was sure must have reflected fairly accurately his utter disbelief. "I'm a theatre actor, Dom," he said, and arched both brows. "How many theatre actors do you know that are entirely straight?"

"Erm," Dom said. It was a good point. Why hadn't he thought of that?

He disregarded it as unimportant, as Sean was kissing him again, and really, what was more important than that?

"Bless Sheffield," Dom groaned fervently when Sean's lips went to work on his neck. "I'm going to write them each a thank you note."

Sean laughed, buzzing against Dom's throat pleasantly. "We'll see how you feel about them when they're kicking Man U's arses all over the pitch."

"Never happen," Dom muttered, not entirely distracted from such blasphemy by Sean's lips on his chest and Sean's hands easing the sweats off of Dom's hips. "Manchester will rip them apart, the lot of them."

Sean grinned up at him, chin resting on Dom's belly. "Care to make a bet on that?" he drawled, eyes sparkling mirth.

"Yes, actually," Dom grinned back. "I believe I would."


End file.
